Category Archives: Ars Poetica

Handwritten Pages #25 Grace

I hid half of you inside my womb; a secret you knowingly planted but wanted to forget.
Two halves made whole then multiplied by division along lines we drew down each other’s bodies.
Until the time I presented her to you and showed you who you were, who you are and who you could be.
And you had the audacity to ask for her to be called Grace.

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Handwritten Pages #24 Tethering

Towering above her by mere centimetres, her daughter on the cusp of identities offered her a hairbrush and elastic. “Plait, please.”
“You can do it yourself.”
“But you’re better at it.”
With the elastic snapped to her wrist she brushed through her daughter’s hair with one strand floating as the lightest tether. As the mother of wands and hands she gathered up the loose strand as an act of sacramental mythos and believed a rope of three cords was a firm anchor. Otherwise her daughter would ride out on open waters from the security of sanctuary even while she harboured her own childhood fears.
Abruptly interrupted.
“Mum, can I cut my hair short?”
Her daughter the helium balloon, straining at the string.
“One day, sweetheart.”

Zentangle #32 In Between

cof

in between all the sadnesses
we must promise
to talk again

Handwritten Pages #22 Storytelling

While you and I loitered outside the 7-Eleven after school, sucking down one dollar Slurpees, I saw a tangle of sneakers hanging like a cluster of grapes from the power lines.

I said we could harvest them, make bootleg memories that won’t mature until we’re twenty years into the future when we’re telling our stories to our children.

It made you laugh and you dribbled onto your uniform and I could see the colour of your bra. You asked what if it tasted like a ragged doormat. I shrugged. We walked on past the high-hanging fruit for ours is the now. But I looked back and wondered, if in the future, we’d buy from the Bottle-O because it’s convenient, rather than labour for the truth of our storytelling.

This piece was inspired by a line from Omar Musa’s TEDxSydney talk in 2013,  Slam Poetry of the Streets. You can view it HERE.
I hope he doesn’t mind the appropriation of his lyric.

 

Handwritten Pages #21 Read Me

cof

 

Fumbling in the darkness you believe you can read the lovers’ braille of gooseflesh on my arms. Except you stutter like a toddler, stuck sucking simple words found in my nipples; repetitively mouthing without nuance or inflection, nor grasping the meaning of what you read. I hold the shaft of the pen you want to write our history with, squeeze the ink dry. You’ll read my note on the table in the morning.

Zentangle #31 Two For One

 

Two For One

we
are only two of
flesh and blood
compare us once

Handwritten Pages #20 Sunlight

He grasped the early morning shafts of sunlight striking through the gaps in the curtains. Strips of sunbeams speckled with diamonds of dust. Harvested like shards of honeycomb, stored in jars and placed around the house as lanterns. He spooned mouthfuls of amber twilight from the jars and ate the light to satiate the darkness.